


A Brother's Love

by ScoutLover



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Bromance, Brotherhood, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Bromance, Epic Friendship, Episode Related, Everyone Should Have a Porthos, Friendship, Gen, It's all about the Athos Angst, Keeping the "Functional" in Front of "Alcoholic" Since 1625, Male Friendship, Porthos is A Rock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4625232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos feels as if he’s teetering on the edge of a precipice. Fortunately, Porthos is there to pull him to safety</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Brother's Love

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This is a tag to “Trial and Punishment,” and takes place after the wedding and Athos’ promotion, but before Athos takes off to meet Milady at the crossroads. There is that scene in the garrison where Athos is captaining so prettily (and a Random Musketeer gets a name; hello, DuValle!), and Porthos is there. The two exchange a look, and Porthos regards Athos with something like sadness or sympathy. Then Athos ditches his captainly duties, grabs his horse and races out of the garrison (toward more inevitable devastation; thank God they went after Aramis, else the man would have laid waste to the Paris wine supply). But that little look between Porthos and Athos grabbed my attention. And, being me, I decided to fic it out.  
> 2) Also, I freely admit that I have _A Thing_ about the beautiful but utterly fucked-up friendship between Athos and Aramis. I can easily get carried away when writing them. But I decided that Porthos needs some love, too, because he is _Porthos_. And, really, everyone should have a Porthos (especially if you are an alcoholic in a toxic relationship who has been thrust into command in advance of a war despite your own feelings of utter unworthiness; again, taverns of Paris, be grateful that retrieving Aramis prevented a one-man assault on your stores).

The garrison was alive with activity. Men, horses, wagons, and equipment spilled out of every building and into the training yard, still more men streamed through the gates as the news spread and they came to join their brothers, and the sounds of voices, animals, carpentry, and blacksmiths’ hammers all vied for dominance in the swelling din.

King Louis had declared war on Spain, and his Musketeers, his elite soldiers, were rushing to prepare. Weapons, both personal and those kept in the armory, were brought out, inspected, cleaned, and, for those needing it, turned over to the smiths for repairs. Horses and tack, too were inspected, pauldrons, belts, and scabbards cleaned until they gleamed, clothing gathered and bundled for a trip to the laundresses of Paris. Stores were inventoried, detailed lists of needed supplies prepared. Veterans of past campaigns shared stories and suggestions with men now facing their first experience of war, and a thrill of excitement ran through all.

These men were soldiers; this was the purpose behind all their training. France called to them in her need, and they stood ready to answer.

Amid all this purposeful chaos moved Athos. He held sheaves of papers in his hands – orders, lists, rosters of names – and stopped frequently to ask or answer questions, issue orders, receive information, or accept congratulations on his promotion from those men who’d not yet had a chance to offer their good wishes. These he accepted with a small smile and a nod of embarrassed gratitude, still surprised by the warmth and sincere delight expressed by his brothers.

No, _his men_.

He alone knew how deeply that thought unnerved him, how utterly unworthy of such an honor, and a responsibility, he felt. He was too keenly aware of his own weaknesses, his own many failings, to believe that he could _ever_ be what these men deserved in a commander, ever be anything _near_ what they’d had in Tréville. That they, who knew him best, and knew his worst, could so obviously believe otherwise was a constant source of astonishment and confusion to him.

How could they be so pleased, so confident, knowing him as they did?

Still, whatever his reservations, and they were legion, he had a responsibility to these men, to the King, and he would not shirk it. So he forced his doubts aside for now, refusing to let them interfere with his duty, telling himself this was no time for trembling. That would come later, and almost certainly with a bottle of wine at hand. Right now, in this moment, the men, _his_ men, needed to see their captain and know that he was with them, and he would give them that. He would give them everything he had to offer.

And pray as he hadn’t prayed in years that it just might be enough.

As had become his habit over the years since fleeing his old life in la Fère and taking up his new one here, he threw himself into his duties to stop his mind from wandering down dark paths. He pored over duty rosters to see which Musketeers were in Paris and which would have to be recalled from missions in other parts of France, ran through figures in his head for the amount of powder and shot and numbers of horses and wagons the – _his_ – quartermasters would need to requisition, went over again (and again) the lists of and progress reports on recruits to see how many could be commissioned now to fill out the ranks.

Yet, despite his best efforts, he could not keep his mind from drifting along one troubling path in particular. And far more often than he liked, he cast an eye up at the sky, gauging the sun’s progress across it.

_I will wait at the crossroads until sundown …_

Her ultimatum – no, it hadn’t been that, nothing so harsh, and thus so easily dismissed, as that – still whispered through his mind. She hadn’t demanded anything of him, hadn’t tried to force an answer from him. She had simply offered him the knowledge, offered him the _choice_ , and so had left him far more crippled by confusion, by doubt, by the seductive promise of possibility, than he ever would have been by any cold ultimatum.

His very nature rebelled at being _forced_ into corners. But he could, apparently, be _whispered_ into them.

_If you choose to come with me …_

Christ, he was a fool. He knew where this, where _they_ , led, and it was nowhere good. Only betrayal, death, and pain lay between them, the kind of torment, hell, and _hurt_ that not even Aramis’ God of love and mercy could heal. And Aramis wasn’t here to invoke him. Once upon a time, Athos might have invoked that God himself, when he’d been _Olivier_ and a good and faithful son of the Church. But now he was _Athos_ , and Athos and God had long since forgotten each other. Just as Athos and _Milady_ had long since forgotten all that Olivier and _Anne_ had ever known about love.

Except…

_I’m not free. I am bound to you, as you are to me._

He _was_ a fool. But he was, as he had ever been, _her_ fool.

And it would soon be sundown.

He couldn’t leave here, he knew that. Too much remained to be done, too many responsibilities clamored for his attention, too many men still looked to him for direction. France was at war now, and he was a soldier. More than that, he was _captain_ , for good or for ill, and these were his men. His place was here.

But she was waiting. The sun was moving across the sky. And something long buried in him just wanted to forget the world and its demands upon him, to lay his head in her lap and breathe her in–

Goddamn it, he needed _time_!

A hard, sharp knife’s blade of desperation sliced through him, driving the air from his lungs. He could run. No one here, surely, would be surprised. These men knew him, knew his weakness, his frailty, his _failures_ , had measured them in countless empty bottles. They had to be waiting, watching, _expecting_ him to break, to flee–

He gasped harshly and absently pressed a hand, still clutching its papers, to his chest. He could _feel_ her now, her lodestone drawing, _pulling_ , his iron, her voice like wine singing in his veins, her scent – _jasmine_ – filling his every breath. It would be so simple, _so_ simple, merely the act of walking to the stables, saddling his horse and riding away. He could leave here, leave everything – _Aramis had done it, hadn’t he?_ – and just lose himself in _her_ , as he’d done when he’d been _Olivier_ and she’d been _Anne_ and nothing had mattered, had _existed_ , except _them_. There’d been no war, no regiment, no duty, and no pain, just the sky and the sun and them–

_And the forget-me-nots she’d woven into her hair._

He drew a sharp, shaky breath and looked over his shoulder. To the stables, to escape–

And saw Porthos.

The big man, deep in conversation with another, younger Musketeer, looked up, caught his eye, and _smiled_. And suddenly Athos’ entire world, his entire _existence_ , stopped and hung on that smile. _This_ was what he’d be leaving. Not the war, not the regiment, not his duty, but _this_. Porthos, the man who’d fished him, _carried_ him, out of so many taverns after so many long, dark nights. The friend who’d stood watch with him over the King and over campfires, who’d fought and bled and laughed and drunk at his side. The _brother_ who’d tended him through wounds and fevers and held him while he’d vomited in alleyways, who’d followed him into countless battles and scrapes and mad adventures not because he was the Comte de la Fère, but because he was _Athos_ and had somehow – _God, how?_ – managed to win the fierce heart beneath that brilliant smile.

He’d be leaving, _abandoning_ , Porthos. And d’Artagnan, the boy who’d grown into a man before his very eyes, who’d discovered his own greatness yet who still looked at _him_ as if he were the source and summit of all that was good and noble in this world. He knew he wasn’t that, could never _be_ that, yet seeing that absolute faith in d’Artagnan’s eyes gave him the strength at least to try.

How could he leave, knowing he would never see that again, never see _them_ again? What would he see if forced to look at himself only through his own eyes, and never _theirs_?

There was a reason he kept no mirror in his room.

Porthos was staring at him now, that smile twisting into a frown. God alone knew what he must look like to put that worry into the big man’s face. The young Musketeer was forgotten now, Porthos’ whole attention on him. He could _feel_ it, even from here.

_Until sundown …_

The world tilted abruptly around him, beneath him, and split open into a yawning chasm. He hung over the precipice, dizzy, lightheaded, lost. Porthos was still here, still staring at him, but Anne was still _out there_ , still waiting for him. And he was caught between them, scrabbling for footing as still more of the world slipped away beneath him–

He gasped sharply, the hand pressed to his chest seeking the invisible knife lodged there, and drew another hard, painful breath.

_Jasmine._

And it was too much. He turned abruptly and almost _fled_ across the yard to the stairs that led to the captain’s – _his_ – office, suddenly and desperately in need of a drink.

*****

To his credit, he did not immediately drain the first bottle he found.

Tréville hadn’t yet packed up and moved his belongings from this office to the palace, hadn’t yet had time, and Athos had long ago discovered where the man kept the key to his wine cabinet. He wrested the cabinet open, grabbed the first bottle he saw, and took it to the desk, _his_ desk, pulling out the cork and pouring a healthy – or _un_ healthy – portion into a cup.

And there he stopped.

He exhaled unsteadily, set the bottle down onto the desk, and turned away from it, burying his face in his hands with a groan.

Christ, what was he doing?

The men – _his men, goddamn it!_ – were down there _preparing for war_ , and he was up here, retreating into a bottle. The regiment hadn’t even moved out yet, no shots had yet been fired, Spain as yet almost certainly had no idea what was coming. And he already wanted to drink the world away.

What the bloody hell had Tréville been thinking? How in God’s name could the man have thought _he_ was suited for command?

The rich scent of the wine reached him, _taunted_ him, and he swallowed hard, painfully aware of the thirst that never completely left him. It would be so easy–

He swore foully, as he seldom allowed himself to do, and forced himself to move away from the desk, to put distance between himself and the lure of that cup. He stalked to the window and stared out, seeing nothing, shoulders tight, back rigid, hands curled tightly into fists at his sides, fingernails digging into his palms.

The wine still waited, still called.

As did _she_.

And he desperately wanted to surrender to both.

The door opened abruptly, loudly, and booted steps thumped against the floor. The door slammed shut.

Athos never turned around. He didn’t need to.

Perhaps God hadn’t quite forgotten him after all.

“You wanta tell me what the hell that was down there?” Porthos demanded, forgoing any polite greeting. Athos didn’t need to turn around to know how the big man would be standing, to know the expression his face would wear. The concern in that deep voice sketched the picture clearly in his mind.

“Is it customary to barge in and simply start shouting at one’s captain?” he asked in the comte’s chilly voice, unable to stop the impulse and hating himself for it. It was a defensive instinct, and he had – _should_ have – no reason to defend himself against these men.

But this was Porthos, and he had his own way of biting back.

“Yeah, guess I forgot my place,” he said cuttingly. “I’ll go back an’ try again. Want me to bow and scrape a bit at your feet, _my lord_?”

Athos flinched, wounded as he knew he was meant to be. He exhaled slowly and bowed his head, his whole posture slumping. “Forgive me,” he breathed. He forced himself to turn around, to meet Porthos’ gaze with his own. “I had no right to speak so. Certainly not to you.”

Porthos shrugged. “It’s your office, _Captain_.” Athos flinched again at the man’s stress on that word. “You get to make the rules.”

And suddenly a new ache rose in Athos’ soul, as something infinitely precious to him flickered on the verge of disappearing forever. He _was_ captain now, and Porthos’ commander. Where did that leave their friendship, their brotherhood? He needed that, _depended_ on it. It had saved his sanity, his _life_ , when he’d first stumbled into this garrison a drunken wreck of a man six years ago, had done so every day since.

How would he survive what was to come without it?

He bowed his head again and ran a hand through his hair. “God help me, I’m already making a mess of this!” he whispered.

And it was, apparently, all Porthos needed, or could bear. In a few long strides, he covered the distance between them and stopped just before Athos, then reached out and set big but gentle hands on his shoulders. “Then why don’t you tell me what’s got you tearin’ yourself up inside an’ lashin’ out at the world,” he said softly. “An’ we’ll see if we can’t figure out a way through it together. Just like we always do.”

Athos looked up sharply at that, his mind seizing on those words and the safety, the security, they offered. Immediately, though, reality intruded, reminding him that things were no longer as they had always been. The world – his world, _their_ world – had changed today, and likely not for the better.

He wrenched out of Porthos’ grasp and turned away, his gaze falling once more onto the cup that beckoned from his desk. The thirst rose again and he absently licked his lips, everything in him craving _just one drink_.

Porthos saw where his gaze alighted and sighed, then moved to put himself between Athos and that cup. “Yeah,” he said firmly, crossing his arms against his chest and lifting his chin slightly, “we’re not doin’ that right now. You got duties, or did you forget that, _Captain_?”

“Goddamn it, stop calling me that!” Athos snarled, tempted to push past the big man and snatch up the cup. Fortunately, better sense – and his instinct for self-preservation – kicked in, holding him where he stood and saving Porthos from the need to beat him senseless.

“Talk to me, Athos,” Porthos urged, his soft voice and gentle gaze at odds with his stern stance. “Tell me what’s goin’ on inside that ’ead of yours so I can ’elp you through it.”

He gave a short, sharp huff of bitter laughter. They’d all taken their turns trying to help him navigate the dark and treacherous paths of his mind. He wondered how any of them could still bother, why they hadn’t simply given up. God knew he had.

He ran his hand through his hair again and started to pace around the office, his need for a drink expressing itself in restless agitation. _Soon his hands would start shaking …_

“I cannot imagine,” he said softly, as if to himself, “what possessed Tréville to put _me_ in command. Christ, _look_ at me!” He stared down at his hands, almost expecting to see the familiar tremors, then clenched them tightly into fists and shook his head. “God in heaven,” he rasped strickenly. “ _Why?_ ”

Porthos drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then crossed to Athos and stopped once more before him, stopping his pacing. He reached out and laid his hands again on Athos’ tight shoulders, gazing down at him through warm, dark eyes. “Because ’e knows there’s no better man for the position than you,” he said softly. “Just like every man in this regiment knows it. Athos,” he lowered his head slightly, catching Athos’ frantic gaze with his and holding it, “I’ve been a soldier most of my life. I’ve served under a lot of officers. And there’s not a one I’d trust my life to more than you. There’s certainly none I respect more, and none I’d rather ’ave lookin’ out for me. Tréville wouldn’t ’ave picked you if ’e didn’t believe you could do this. ’E’s got faith in you. And so do I. So do we all.” He grinned crookedly. “An’ we can’t all be wrong, now can we?”

Warmth rose through him at Porthos’ belief in him – all the more treasured from a man who did not believe easily – but it wasn’t enough. “We shall see,” he said dourly, refusing to believe they could all be _right_ about him.

“Athos,” Porthos sighed, irritation and affection mingling in his voice, “how can you be so bloody fuckin’ brilliant, an’ still be so bloody fuckin’ stupid?”

He inhaled sharply and stiffened, his deeply ingrained sense of propriety, which not even years with these men had managed to erode, outraged. “I am not certain,” he drawled coldly, “that you are allowed to speak to your captain in that manner!”

But Porthos seemed unfazed. “My captain, no,” he agreed easily. “But my _friend’s_ another matter. So we need to get somethin’ straight right now. Out there,” he gestured toward the door, and the garrison beyond it, “you’ll always be my captain. I’ll follow your orders, obey your every command without question, an’ shoot any man who don’t give you the proper respect. But in ’ere, when it’s just us, I’m your friend, your _brother_ , an’ I’ll kick your noble arse if you need it. I’ve never been anything less than honest with you, an’ that ain’t changin’ now. Deal?”

Despite himself, Athos smiled. He’d had much the same relationship with Tréville, and, if he were honest with himself, he would never expect any less from the man before him. “I suppose I and my ‘noble arse’ can live with that,” he admitted.

“Good, ’cause that’s the way it’s gonna be,” Porthos said firmly. “Now,” he squeezed Athos’ shoulders gently, “you gonna tell me what really sent you up ’ere in such a panic? ’Cause I know it wasn’t just you tryin’ to run away from this. You’re a lotta things, but you’ve never been a coward.”

Athos inclined his head and arched a brow. “That’s not what you said that day in Pinon,” he pointed out quietly, the comte’s hauteur again seeping into his tone. Porthos’ words from that day still pricked him, even if he had deserved them.

Porthos arched his own brow. “I said ‘if I didn’t know you better,’” he countered patiently, “an’ I apologized for it after. Now,” he lifted his chin again, “tell me what’s really goin’ on, an’ I’ll let you ’ave some of that wine you keep starin’ at.”

That startled him. He honestly didn't know he _had_ been staring. He sighed and turned away, again bowing his head and raising a hand to rub at one temple. God, he was in a worse state than he had thought.

“Hey.” Porthos laid a hand on his back, warm and gentle and full of a strength he envied. And needed. “It’s all right. I know you need this, an’ while that hurts me more than I can say, I also know I can’t change it. God knows we’ve all tried often enough, an’ it ain’t worked yet.” Sorrow crept into his voice. “An’ maybe it never will. But I can ’elp ya, yeah? Make sure you get what you need to keep goin’, but stop you before you fall in. That sound all right?”

He turned around slowly, saw the love and concern shining in Porthos’ dark eyes, and drew the first full breath he had in hours. “That sounds fine,” he breathed, more grateful than he could say for this man and his unwavering friendship. “Though it is probably much more than I deserve.”

“Rubbish,” Porthos said fiercely. “You deserve more than you’ll let yourself believe. Fortunately for you,” he grinned and winked, “you got friends who know better. Just let us take care of ya, yeah?”

“I suspect I have no choice,” he said, smiling faintly.

“An’ you’d be right. So sit down, drink your wine, an’ talk to me.”

Athos hesitated. “You won’t like it,” he warned.

Porthos sighed and shook his head, crossing his arms once more. “Can’t be any worse than what I’ve ’eard up to now.”

Athos braced himself. Oh, it could be _so_ much worse. “It’s … Anne,” he said softly, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

Instead, Porthos merely stared at him for long moments, the man’s dark eyes fixed on his face, his expression, for once, utterly unreadable. He stood as if frozen, then exhaled and bowed his head. “Shit,” he breathed, setting his hands on his hips. “Best pour me a cup, too, then.”

Athos gratefully busied himself finding and filling a second cup, trying desperately to decide how he would explain this. Then he remembered this was _Porthos_ , that no carefully crafted words would be needed. Or would be accepted. Only complete honesty would satisfy the man.

He handed Porthos a cup, took his own and looked around for a chair. Porthos gestured with his cup to the desk, and the chair behind it.

“Might as well start breakin’ it in,” he suggested.

Athos felt a momentary flutter of panic. It was the _captain’s_ chair–

“I can kick your arse, or you can plant it in _your_ chair,” Porthos said idly.

He scowled, but forced himself to move to the chair and sit down in it. Stiffly.

Porthos snagged a nearby chair with his foot and dragged it closer to the desk, then sank down into it. “So how’s she breakin’ you into bits this time?” he asked.

Athos gave a small, wry smile at that. Anne had helped them save the Queen, had rescued Aramis from prison, had given them the information that had damned Rochefort. But whatever forgiveness for past crimes that had won her, she was still clearly able to prey on his mind and heart, and that, he realized, would always make her suspect in Porthos’ eyes.

He stared down into his cup, seeing not the wine, but her face the last time they had talked. She had looked so tired, so wistful, and more like the girl he’d married than she had since she’d first revealed herself to him in the firelight of the chateau she’d burned down around him. But she _wasn’t_ that girl any more, could never be that girl again, and he wasn’t the callow and love-blind young man who’d defied generations of conventions and his own duty to his family to marry her. Neither of them could reclaim the people they’d been then.

The question was, who were they _now_? And what, if anything, could they be to each other?

He swore under his breath and raised his cup, taking a deep, almost desperate, drink.

“Yeah, I know that look,” Porthos sighed, raising his own cup. “Might’s well tell me now, while you can still talk without slurrin’ your words.”

He shot a hard stare at Porthos, stung. “I won’t–” But Porthos only arched a brow, and he winced. “Fine.” He set his cup down on the desk and deliberately withdrew his hands, settling them in his lap. And then on the arms of the chair. And finally back in his lap. The cup was _so_ close, and he _ached_ from his thirst.

And Anne was still waiting.

As was Porthos.

“She is leaving Paris,” he said softly, the words coming of their own volition. “Leaving France.” _Leaving me_ , his mind whispered traitorously. “She is … waiting … at the crossroads outside town until sundown.”

Porthos stared at him, absently swirling the wine around in his cup, a faint frown on his face. “Waitin’ for _what_ , exactly?” he asked, though he almost certainly knew the answer. Porthos wasn’t stupid, and he knew Athos. Possibly too well.

Unable to resist it any longer, he reached for his cup and drank. The wine was rich and sweet, and he needed it far too much. It was only by sheer force of will that he managed not to drink until the cup was empty. “For me,” he answered at last. “She is going to England, and has asked … has given me the choice … of going with her.” His voice broke shamefully, and he took another, though smaller, drink.

Porthos continued to stare at him. “She wants you to go to England with her,” he repeated, his voice steady and calm, almost thoughtful, even as his dark eyes bored into Athos. “The woman who’s tried to kill you a number of times, who’s tried to kill us, Constance, _the Queen_ , who was the Cardinal’s assassin an’ the King’s _mistress_ , wants you to go to England with her and … what? Start over? Pretend none of the past six years happened? Leave the regiment, _your_ regiment, with a bloody _war_ comin’, so you can set up ’ousekeepin’ with her?” He never raised his voice, never shifted in his chair, just continued to stare at Athos and hammer out questions. “What are you gonna do in England? You gave up your title, won’t ’ave income from your estate. ’Ow are you two gonna live? You gonna take up farmin’? Be a shopkeeper? Join the English army an’ maybe fight against us one day? She gonna take up thievin’ again? You two gonna have children?”

He winced and set his cup on the desk. “Porthos–”

“Granted,” the big man went on as if he hadn’t spoken, “they’d be beautiful, an’ smart, an’ lethal as hell. Prob’ly be runnin’ the country by the time they’re grown. But they’d be _English_. An’ you ’ate the English. You’d be leavin’ _us_ to go with _’er_ and live among people you _hate_.” He leaned forward and pinned Athos with a hard, hot stare. “That sound about right to you?”

He slumped forward and drove his hands into his hair. “I don’t–”

“Tell me, Athos,” Porthos went on, merciless as only he could be, “’ow many times ’ave you fought for France? ’Ow much blood ’ave you shed for ’er? Shit, you just risked bein’ executed as a traitor to keep a madman from plungin’ ’er into civil war or givin’ ’er to the Spanish! An’ now you’re gonna _walk away_?” His voice rose in anger, his harsh words flaying Athos like a scourge, each one opening a deep wound. “Walk away from the bones of your family, which I know _means_ somethin’ to you, walk away from your duty, which I know means _everything_ to you, turn your back on your brothers, on your _honor_ , leave everything that’s ever mattered to you, an’ just _go_ –”

“ _Of course, I’m not going, goddamn it!_ ” he shouted, shooting to his feet. Rage, confusion and _hurt_ churned through him, and he swore again and viciously kicked the chair away from him, unable, for once, to control himself.

But this what she did to him, wasn’t it? She confused and beguiled him, stripped away the control that was precious to him, blinded him to the duty that was his _life_ and reduced him to a senseless _fool_ who no longer knew who he _was_ or what he _believed_! She’d done it the day they met, and every time he’d encountered her since. Christ, he would have given up _everything_ for her, _had_ lost everything _because_ of her–

And she was waiting at the crossroads for him, waiting for him to give up still _more_ of himself–

“God help me, I love her!” he groaned brokenly, burying his face in shaking hands, his fury draining away abruptly in a dizzying rush, almost dropping him to his knees.

And suddenly Porthos was there, catching him, holding him, cradling him as if he were something fragile and precious. “It’s all right,” he soothed softly. “I got ya.” Still holding to Athos with one arm, he managed to right the chair with the other. “Here, sit,” he instructed, easing Athos down. “Christ, you’ve got a bastard of a temper! I always forget that.”

“I love her, Porthos,” he breathed plaintively, feeling utterly drained. “In spite of everything– How can I still love her?”

The big man snorted sharply and squatted by his side, laying a strong hand over his shaking ones and squeezing gently. “Shit, Athos, if I could explain love, I’d be a wise an’ wealthy man,” he sighed. “But I’m just me, an’ I don’t ’ave any answers for ya.”

“I have to see her, talk to her,” he said, that edge of desperation rising in him again. “I can’t just let her leave!”

“Why not?” Porthos asked softly, slowly.

Athos looked up sharply, frowning. “I l–”

“Yeah, I know,” Porthos interrupted, raising a hand to silence him. “You love ’er. And in ’er own strange way, I think she loves you, too. But you two–” He exhaled sharply and scowled, shaking his head slowly. “You two ain’t good for each other, Athos. There’s too much damage an’ bad blood – an’ I do mean _blood_ – between ya. Christ, think of everything you’ve done to each other! How in the name of God do you get past all that? You tell me,” he said fiercely, gripping Athos’ hands tightly and staring intently into his eyes, “how are you gonna look at that scar around her neck _every day_ and not think about what you did to ’er? About what she did to drive you to it? She killed your _brother_ , for God’s sake! And you _’anged_ ’er for it–”

“She said he tried to rape her,” he rasped, the words spilling out before he could stop them. He’d never imagined saying them to anyone, had never imagined saying them out loud ever again. The very _taste_ of them in his mouth sickened him, made him long for more wine to wash their bitterness away.

Porthos reeled, his eyes widening, his dark face paling. He stared at Athos in shock, obviously at a complete loss for words. Or even thought.

Athos exhaled heavily and rose to his feet, resuming his pacing. If he stayed near the desk, he’d only keep drinking. “She claimed it then, too,” he sighed, dropping a hand to his side and fidgeting absently with the hilt of his sword, the horrific images from that day rising before him to taunt him anew. “But I didn’t believe her. I _couldn’t_. I couldn’t _think_! My brother was dead by my wife’s hand, his blood pooling on the floor we’d played on as children–” He whirled to face Porthos. “How _could_ I believe it?” he asked harshly. “How could I believe that _my brother_ , a man born of the same parents that I was, given the same upbringing that I was, raised in the same home and on the same lessons in honor and integrity and loyalty– How could I believe it?” he cried, even now the very _idea_ refusing to make sense in his mind. “ _How could I believe that my brother, whom I loved with everything that was in me, had tried to rape my wife?_ ”

The words ripped from him in little more than an anguished howl, driving spikes of pain through his soul. God, how, _how_ could Thomas have betrayed him like that, betrayed _Anne_ like that? How could _any_ man do that to the people he claimed to _love_?

And how could _he_ have betrayed the woman he had so adored by refusing to believe her? In the end, whose betrayal had been worse – Thomas’ or _his_?

“Fuck,” Porthos finally murmured. “No wonder you two claw at each other the way you do!”

Athos sighed heavily, bowing his head and scrubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t want to claw at her any more,” he breathed. “And I don’t want to go to England with her. But neither do I want her to disappear from my life. I simply–”

_You know there can be no peace for either of us until we are both dead._

_I’m not free. I’m bound to you, as you are to me._

“I simply want to know if there can ever be more between us than pain and anger,” he sighed. He turned to Porthos and stared helplessly at him. “Is that so very much to ask? After all we have put each other through, after all we have suffered, aren’t we entitled to a little peace at last?”

Porthos rose to his feet and came slowly forward, dark eyes filled with sympathy and sorrow. “Yeah, I suppose you are,” he said softly. “God knows _you_ are, anyway. So what are you gonna do?”

He exhaled sharply and shook his head. “Go to her, ask her to stay, make a fool of myself again,” he sighed, hating this weakness in himself but unable to conquer it. “I seem unable to do anything else where she is concerned.” He forced a slight, bitter smile. “Still so certain I’m the captain you want?”

Porthos huffed and scowled deeply. “What, just because you want a bit of ’appiness? Yeah, that’s a terrible trait in a man.”

“But I would have to leave the garrison.” He resumed his pacing, his thoughts racing and his body trying to keep up. “She said she would only wait until sundown, and that’s not far off. But there is so much to do here! Thanks to Rochefort, we’ve never been able to procure the supplies and equipment we need. We are short on everything, and what we _do_ have is old and showing signs of wear. I’ve ordered _everything_ inventoried, and I have to figure out whom I need to threaten or blackmail to get what we need. I have to decide which of the recruits can be commissioned, I’m still trying to find out exactly _where_ all of our men are, and Tréville expects a report on our readiness by tomorrow morning–”

“Athos, stop.” Porthos stepped in front of him again, stopped his pacing again, set gentle hands on his shoulders again. The man had been doing this for six years now, settling him when he was in danger of flying apart. Athos suddenly wondered if he’d ever thanked him. “The regiment’s not goin’ anywhere today. You know as well as I do that the King sayin’ we’re at war don’t make it ’appen at once. You got time. An’ you don’t ’ave to do it all alone. There’s a lot of men ’ere who’ve been through this before an’ know what to do. Let us ’elp. You can slip away for a bit. I’ll cover for ya with Tréville if ’e asks for ya, tell ’im you ’ad an errand needed runnin’.” He winked. “Ain’t like I’ve never done it before.”

Athos blinked, startled. He knew how Porthos felt about Anne, knew the man wanted nothing more than to see her out of his life for good. “You’d– do that?” he asked softly.

“For you? Yeah, I would. Like I said, you deserve to be ’appy. An’ if it takes ’er stayin’ in France to give you that,” he shrugged and gave a small, crooked smile, “then I can live with it. I’m not crazy about it, an’ I still think you’d both be better off as far apart from each other as you can get, but this ain’t about me. So you do what you gotta do, an’ I’ll ’elp any way I can.”

Athos decided six years was long enough to wait. He reached up and clasped a hand around Porthos’ neck, pulling the man’s forehead to his. “Thank you,” he whispered, pouring all the love and gratitude he felt into the simple words. “For everything.”

“We’re brothers,” Porthos breathed. “It’s what we do, yeah? All for one?” He pressed a kiss to Athos’ temple. “Just try not to get ’urt,” he whispered. “I’m runnin’ outta ways to put you back together.”

Athos smiled weakly at him. “Does that mean you’re going to stop trying?”

Porthos snorted. “Not bloody likely,” he scoffed. “I’m not throwin’ away all my ’ard work now. Look at you.” He gave a playful slap to Athos’ arm. “We’ve even got you smilin’! Who woulda thought _that_ was possible all those years ago?”

Warmth rose through him, filling the broken places in him. “You are a miracle worker, Porthos du Vallon.”

“And you’re a lot of bloody ’ard work, Olivier d’Athos de la Fère. Now, c’mon,” he slipped a strong arm around Athos’ shoulders and guided him toward the door, “let’s go get ready for the King’s new war. If you want, _Captain_ , you can even give me an order, an’ I’ll obey it.”

“You’d better, _Musketeer_ ,” Athos drawled, feeling stronger, steadier, than he had since Tréville had yanked his world out from under him. _Miracle worker, indeed._ “I should hate for my first act as captain to be having you shot for insubordination.”

“Yeah, we’ll save that for later, then,” Porthos agreed, sounding none too troubled by the prospect. “At least give the Spanish a shot at me first.”

Porthos’ arm fell away from him as soon as he stepped through the door, the man as good as his word – loving brother on one side, loyal Musketeer on the other. Even so, he could still feel the big man’s warmth and strength against him like a shield, protecting him from whatever hurt waited to claim him.

As he started down the stairs, and was again inundated with questions, requests and complaints, it dawned on him that he’d not finished his wine – and that his hands were steady and his thirst barely noticeable.

The weight of command still hung heavily on his shoulders.

War still loomed like a darkening shadow on the horizon.

The sun was still moving across the sky.

Anne was still waiting at the crossroads.

But whatever happened _out there_ , he knew he had brothers _here_.

Their love would be strong enough to see him through it all.

_The End_


End file.
